


Roll Up Your Sleeves

by ImogenSmiley



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of crime, Acting on Childhood Feelings, Backstory, Breaking and Entering, Canon-Compliant, Crime, Despair, F/F, Immediate Fallout of Canon, Meeting Again, Reunion, Romantic Tension, canon character death, remnants of despair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28598628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenSmiley/pseuds/ImogenSmiley
Summary: When Mahiru Koizumi first saw her classmates, she couldn’t believe how she had lucked out – there were just so many beautiful people with spectacular talents that she could capture behind her lens. But there was one girl, one girl who she just wanted to plaster over every canvas: Hiyoko Saionji.She had such an infantile cute-sy beauty to her. Hiyoko was drowned by her blazer, and skirt, and wore her blonde hair tied back with large ribbons, braces on her teeth. Her makeup was impeccable, heavy blush rounding her cheeks.She was so pretty.Mahiru was always enamored with Hiyoko, she was just so beautiful, and it wasn’t hard to notice the sores on her feet. She wanted to do something, but Hiyoko would shut her down; Mahiru wasn’t allowed to know what being the Ultimate Traditional Dancer entailed. No. Never.Or, at least, not until her family’s blood stained the sleeves of the clementine and lime kimono she used to wear to dance.
Relationships: Koizumi Mahiru/Saionji Hiyoko
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Roll Up Your Sleeves

**Author's Note:**

> And, with this oneshot, my 2020 Oneshot Challenge has concluded! I am so proud of myself, I'm not going to lie! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my craft!

The rise of the Remnants of Despair, the people who in the shadow of Junko Enoshima, internalised her mantra, and inspired fear amidst the masses. She had convinced the elites, the next generation’s hope to rebel against norms and inspire chaos.

Junko Enoshima had touched Hiyoko, and her classmates, and given them the nudge they needed to embrace how broken harnessing their talents made them; and it really hadn’t been hard for Hiyoko, once she felt spilled blood on her fingers, she knew that what she was doing was right.

She had planned out how she would do it, long before Junko even came into her life, but being told that those urges she felt, the temptation to fight back, it was all she had ever wanted. Even, if she hadn’t said it directly, those instructions, the encouragement, it was branded into her heart and soul. This would be the right thing to do.

She had spoken to her during a recess, in the cafeteria, strode up to the significantly shorter girl and stared down at her, making Hiyoko pout, crossing her arms.

“What do you want?”

“You’re Hiyoko Saionji, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“You knew that girl who got murdered, right? Not the first one, the other one.”

Hiyoko puffed out her cheeks, biting her tongue and nodding firmly. She had shed enough tears about Sato-chan behind closed doors, her grandparents had grown weary of her emotions, told her to suck it up and get back to practice, the world would move on past a child’s death, what was more important was keeping the tradition alive, it was Holy Water, being corrupted by saltwater tears. Wrong.

“That was _so_ sad. Poor girl.”

“What do you want,” Hiyoko replied, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re hurting,” Junko had said, “Feel it. Those emotions? They’re the most real thing you can feel. Revel in it.”

Hiyoko’s wide hazel eyes met Junko’s cold blue ones, the younger girl, having captured her attention, spoke again. Her voice was clear but quiet, “Despair, it’s the rawest emotion there could ever be.”

“Your point?”

“You should be allowed to hurt, you know. And _, so should everyone else_. You’ve hurt, don’t you want _others_ to feel it too?”

Hiyoko huffed, glancing around her, there was no sign of her friends coming to the rescue. Even Mahiru, who was Sato-chan’s best friend was so far away, in the queue with the others getting their lunches from the cafeteria.

They hadn’t cried at school either. The police had spoken to them all, and none of them came out with bleary teary eyes. Did they even care? Didn’t they feel the grief of losing a friend?

Hiyoko, meeting her eyes, nodded firmly, once. Junko nodded, a small smile creeping onto her face, “Let the world at your feet feel how you feel, too.”

And with that, she had taken off, her short skirt swishing behind her. Hiyoko had shaken her head, a singular ponytail smacking her in the face. She frowned, watching the younger girl and her twin tails bound into the hallway.

She remembered that conversation long after the memorials had ceased for Sato-chan. And those words had latched onto a new wound, digging into scars she had hidden from the world, dealt by the hands of tradition. Junko was right.

The arduous torture she had endured was finally being spun on its heel. Her grandparents wept as their own methods of training Hiyoko to be the best of the best were being flipped and used against them. Nails? She had plenty, rusted, tarnish, and fresh. She sharpened them, too.

Forcing her guardians to pierce skin and bone on broken glass, and nails were only the first step. She cut their tongues out, next. Because apparently, her foul mouth ruined the allure of her craft. How could she enchant the masses when she spat such cruel words at those beneath her. Just because she was better didn’t mean she could admit it.

She fashioned an iron maiden out of her old closet, where she stuffed her once strict grandparents, hammering the nails into the wood, piercing their skin as she beat the metal with a mallet. Blood pooled at her feet, sticking to the wood of her sandals.

But that wasn’t enough.

Watching high ranked members of the Saionji Clan’s blood wash over her feet wasn’t enough; she wanted to rule their clan, and be rid of all who brought on the pain she had once experienced. Her family would feel the despair that they didn’t prevent.

Her parents would be next. They were complacent, they should have fought harder for her. Saved her. They were weak, beneath her, and they should suffer for their incompetence.

With bloody hands, she untied the singular ponytail that pulled at her scalp, allowing her blonde curls free, staining the fibers of her hair as she tied it back again, in twin tails, like the girl who’s words she had clung to.

The girl who had just died, on live TV, after broadcasting a killing game between her former classmates.

Hiyoko’s kimono was covered in the blood of her grandparents, she tore at the fabric, snagging the hem on discarded nails. She ran out of her home, from where she would never return. Like many others that had been inspired by Junko’s words, she flocked toward the familiar doors of Hope’s Peak Academy.

This was a new form of graduation; the Remnants Of Despair were going to enter stage left and accept diplomas in despair. Junko’s ideal world wouldn’t wither with her body, no they were going to earn their stripes in the fallout of the aftershock. She would have wanted this to continue. She said that before she died.

Hiyoko thought it was clear; she was calling those who agreed with her, those she knew and trusted with her vision, to arms. She wanted to bathe the entire world in that feeling; the feeling of true despair.

She noticed that the main school gates had been mowed down, iron bars crushed beneath tires. Skid marks of almost tank-like vehicles tattooed the concrete. Instead of following them, she turned the opposite way, maneuvering the grounds, speedily leaping over the same old dislodged concrete path she used to take to class.

Searching the grounds for the survivors of the killing game, she instead, happened across a familiar pair of haunting green eyes.

Mahiru.

She hadn’t seen her in the two years since they had all graduated from Hopes Peak Academy, her classmate, the Ultimate Photographer, looked different, now, perhaps because she was covered in soot, with a hefty black camera slung around her neck, much more sophisticated than the one she used to take to school, and a lanyard, which read “press”.

Hiyoko gawked at the redhead. Mahiru had really grown up since graduation, she had grown out her pixie-cut, and her hair now hung as an almost mullet-like bob hybrid, poorly maintained, and something that Hiyoko would have never allowed her to do whilst at school with her. Mullets were ugly. But, this, this hairstyle wasn’t. Mahiru, Mahiru looked good. Pretty. So so pretty.

She hadn’t been allowed to think of romance, it was something drilled into her by her grandparents, but she had always wondered about how it felt: love. She had seen Gundham Tanaka and Sonia Nevermind love each other in school walls with such intensity that it stunned her to think that outside of school they couldn’t due to Sonia being a Princess. Perhaps because Sonia was the only one above her, even though Hiyoko was grilled to not see anyone as above her.

Then there was Akane Owari and Coach Nekomaru Nidai. They loved each other too, they had a heated relationship full of passionate support for one another, a figurative and literal power couple. You couldn’t get much better than an Ultimate Sportsperson dating the Ultimate Team Manager.

She had always liked Mahiru, maybe too much, especially after the death of Sato-chan. Maybe she just wanted to be the pretty photographer’s best friend instead. She didn’t know, but, deep down, she wondered whether she could feel similar to how Akane and Nekomaru did, or Gundham and Sonia did. And, if she got to choose who, Mahiru would likely be the most tolerable.

Then again, Ibuki-chan was lovely and funny. She would have never considered Mikan, but she was good at her job, very soft-spoken and comforting, but annoying. Peko would have been lovely too, a strong person to keep her safe, but after what happened with Sato-chan, even in a theoretical sense, there was no way Peko would have looked at her twice. Anyway, she was clearly willing to be everything and anything Fuyuhiko needed instead. Akane was a glutton, and although she was a loyal and strong person, she was a _lot_. Nekomaru was perfect for her. He was a lot, too. But he had that calming, protective, and reassuring nature that somehow managed to keep her in check. They were perfect together. Miss Sonia, oh how Hiyoko would have loved to be a Princess, but she would have hated to be second to someone, no, there was only room for greatness in the Saionji clan. No, Gundham and his hamsters could have her. She didn’t care. Mahiru. It was always Mahiru.

But marrying a girl was never going to be on the cards in the Saionji clan, so, theoretical musings were about as good as it would get.

There she was, though. Mahiru. Dirty, wearing a sleek black turtle neck jumper, a leathery trench-coat, and a pair of khaki green trousers, cuffed above her scuffed-up combat boots. She was scruffier than Hiyoko had ever seen her in school, but, looked comfortable: more relaxed. She looked like she had fallen into herself. But, in spite of her new look, she was distinctly Mahiru.

“What are you doing here, Mahiru-chan?” Hiyoko asked as a low wail of encroaching sirens wept for Junko’s death outside, drawing nearer and nearer.

“Shhh,” Mahiru said, pressing her finger to Hiyoko’s lips. She peeked through a window, and drew her camera to the glass, snapping a picture.

“Are you here to report on what happened to the killing game?”

“Shh!” she took another picture, “The police will be here any second, and freedom of the press won’t hold up in a jail cell.”

“Mahiru-”

“If you say one more word,” Mahiru said, reaching into an inside pocket of her jacket, and producing a small penknife, “I’ll make sure you don’t say anymore.”

“Oh yeah,” Hiyoko sneered, leaning closer to her.

Mahiru raised a thin crimson brow and smirked to herself, “From the state of you, I’d suggest staying quiet. After all, you’re covered in blood.”

Hiyoko cursed.

The sirens were close now, too close.

Mahiru cursed, dragging Hiyoko into the bushes.

“This place is going to blow as soon as those pigs go inside that trial room. Kazuichi-kun’s been and gone, set up an explosive. He’s sure as hell grown up.”

“I thought we weren’t talking anymore.”

Mahiru put her fingers to her lips, peering out of the bush, it seemed that every single officer sent to Hope’s Peak was being sent to recover the bodies of the victims, and be rid of the mess that Junko had made of this once-respectable school.

She bit her lip, her pearly white teeth piercing the skin. Her eyes were alight with enthusiasm, counting on her fingers as officers made their way inside.

Once the last cop car emptied, Mahiru leaped from the shrub, grasping Hiyoko’s bloodied palm, and bolted from the grounds.

Even in gym class, she had never seen Mahiru run this quickly, fuelled by excitement and adrenaline, she was like a child chasing the ice cream van, or rushing to the sea on the beach. This wasn’t the girl she knew.

Hiyoko stumbled after her, struggling to keep up in her shoes.

They had run far enough, to a clearing of trees on the outskirts of the grounds, “C’mon. I followed Fuyuhiko-kun and Pekoyama-san into the grounds, they cut the fence. My bike is on the other side.”

Hiyoko gawked at her, she was really going to make a bid for freedom on a bicycle? What was she? Twelve?

“We still have time, Hiyoko-chan. C’mon, they won’t make it into that trial room from TV easy.”

Hiyoko nodded, swallowing hard, and followed Mahiru to a gaping hole in the chain-link fence that used to mark the end of the grounds. Amidst holes made by tennis balls, baseballs, and other neglected sports equipment and behind a bush, was a clean slash in the metal. Hiyoko wondered if Peko had made such a cut, or if it had been pliers.

Either way, she didn’t have much of a choice but to follow Mahiru now. She crawled through thorns and brambles to make her way out of the bushes that marked the outskirts of the academy grounds.

“Hurry up, Hiyoko-chan.”

“I thought you said we have time!” Hiyoko whined, puffing out her cheeks.

“If the pigs have a chopper we’re done for. C’mon.”

“Fine,” she sighed, arms crossed, as she picked up the pace, following Mahiru through the woods to where she had left her bike.

Much to Hiyoko’s surprise, instead of a bicycle, stood a motorcycle. Mahiru produced a key from a chain around her neck, hidden behind the neckline of her jumper, and unlocked the storage compartment at the back. She produced a helmet from inside and placed the one waiting on her handlebars on her own head. Her camera remained around her neck as she gunned the bike’s engine.

“Hop on Hiyoko-chan.”

Hiyoko cautiously mounted the bike, her shredded kimono leaving her scarred legs exposed as she scooted back to give Mahiru space.

“Hold on.”

With crimson cheeks, Hiyoko did as she was told, clinging her waist, head buried into the nape of her neck. She didn’t need to be told twice, she would happily stay like that forever.

They drove along busy highways for hours to a cabin in a forest, just on the outskirts of another city, far enough away that, hopefully, they would be able to hide under the radar for a few days while the ballsier members of their former class made their moves.

She wasn’t sure what to expect. Kazuichi had clearly come into his own when it came to building things and making destructive devices, would he work solo? Was that the smartest thing to do? What about Mikan? She followed Junko around like a lost puppy during school, she was probably in mourning. Would she dare do anything?

Hiyoko was reluctant to wash her hands when she arrived at the safe house, but she knew she needed a bath, she needed to scrub the searing skin on her legs from exposed leg meeting the motor of Mahiru’s bike.

“This place is mine, it’s a studio, but it has basic facilities. Bed, bathroom, kitchen. _Don’t_ go in the darkroom,” Mahiru’s tone was sharp, threatening.

She led the way to the bedroom, pointing out the bathroom and kitchen for Hiyoko. There was a door, painted with peeling black paint, clearly, the darkroom, while Hiyoko saw to tidy herself up, Mahiru excused herself to the space.

Hiyoko didn’t see her old friend until the next morning, she was still wearing the same dirty clothes as she had done when she met her on the grounds of her old school. Hiyoko, having commandeered the bed, couldn’t help but wonder whether Mahiru had stayed up all night in the darkroom, developing whatever images she had on that camera of hers.

Mahiru had excused herself to the bathroom, and had a bath, returning in an hour, her mullet slicked back, now wearing a grey strappy shirt, and a pair of ripped jeans.

“Aren’t you going to get changed? Your kimono’s in tatters.”

“Nothing you own is going to fit me.”

Mahiru shrugged, heading back into the bedroom and tossing the blonde a large boxy grey t-shirt. She shrugged on her jacket and left the cabin, leaving Hiyoko alone.

In her former best friend’s absence, Hiyoko pondered over her next move. With her grandparents dead in such a brutal fashion and Hiyoko absent, she will be the prime suspect for the rest of the clan, meaning, that because she decided to follow Mahiru, instead of going after her family, she would have to make a decision. On the one hand, heading home now, was suicide. Surely the police would be spread far too thin with whatever atrocities Kazuichi had set up, but that didn’t mean that nobody had reported the garish murder that took place in the Saionji residence. Maybe she should lay low for a while.

Or, risk arrest and go all-out. But, Junko said everyone should feel her hurt. How could she do that?

Mahiru arrived back promptly, a brand new Kimono in her arms, and a more comfortable outfit, boring and bland black t-shirt and a white skirt, with some ugly red high-top trainers. Had she ransacked the kids section? It would do if she had to leave the cabin herself. But it was ugly. She would much rather just wear a kimono, but she would be spotted a mile away in one. Maybe Mahiru, despite having a weird sense of style, wasn’t being stupid by picking bland ugly clothes.

But damn, that kimono. It was a stunning crisp material, two-toned with a vertical colour-block split across the center. white and black in material, with a crimson obi. A smirk crossed Hiyoko’s face.

“Thank you Mahiru-chan,” she sang, bounding toward the kitchen, fabric in her hands. She produced a pair of scissors from inside the kitchen drawer, and hacked at the hemline of the garment, hacking off almost half of the fabric.

A smile crept onto Mahiru’s lips, as she glanced at Hiyoko’s scarred legs. The soft skin of her thin limbs was covered in a variety of scars, from ones that looked like they were shaped like cigarette butts, to ones that resembled puncture marks, and others that looked like rope burn. All were healed. Higher up her leg, at a gash in the fabric near her thigh, she saw more scars, uniform lines. Deliberate. Mahiru promptly averted her eyes, praying that the hemline of the skirt she had bought wouldn’t make Hiyoko uncomfortable.

It had been three days since the girls had made their escape from Hope’s Peak, and since then, a sense of normality had returned to the girls, the two years apart, and the hesitation had seemingly disappeared. It was like they were in High School again.

This meant, unfortunately for Mahiru, that once dormant attraction to the cute blonde was back in full force.

When Mahiru Koizumi first saw her classmates, she couldn’t believe how she had lucked out – there were just so many beautiful people with spectacular talents that she could capture behind her lens. But there was one girl, one girl who she just wanted to plaster over every canvas: Hiyoko Saionji.

She had such an infantile cute-sy beauty to her. Hiyoko was drowned by her blazer, and skirt, and wore her blonde hair tied back with large ribbons, braces on her teeth. Her makeup was impeccable, heavy blush rounding her cheeks.

She couldn’t help but stare at what two years of distance could do for Hiyoko. She wore her beautiful blonde curls in twin tails like she used to do at the start of High School. But time had sharpened her edges, carving an angular jawline and a sharp nose from her once childlike features. Soft cheekbones that were once covered in heavy blush to accentuate roundness were so smooth and almost statuesque.

Her body was still small, fragile, and almost like a doll’s. But, her long legs, scars and all, were free, out for Mahiru to see as she lived in her best friend’s boxy t-shirts, the outfit that had been purchased for Hiyoko remained with the tags on in the bedroom, and there was no way she could buy enough kimonos to satisfy her friend. After all, kimonos were expensive, and as much as Hiyoko had one, that was reserved for a later day. She had spent a whole day sending Mahiru from haberdashery to thrift store, to stationery shop from the comforts of the kitchen table.

Mahiru had obliged, but now the garment had been completed, Hiyoko just needed a few extra accessories which would require her to leave the house.

Being the Ultimate Traditional Dancer meant that she would risk being spotted more than Mahiru, after all, she wasn’t in the spotlight, it was the images she took. It would be risky, but, admittedly, Hiyoko was identified more-so by her constant wearing of a kimono, than anything else.

Mahiru couldn’t help but be filled with excitement, her stomach felt like it was filled with popping candy and she couldn’t wait to gorge herself on the sweetness of whatever chaos Hiyoko was planning. All she knew is, they had similar plans: despair.

Mahiru’s role as the Ultimate Photographer was clear, to capture the despair on camera and share it with the masses. Being a renowned photographer meant that people would look for her images, and instead of being plastered with the wholesome ones from before she was faced with reality, they would see the despair of the real world. If at fifteen she had to see Fuyuhiko’s sister dead on the floor in the music room, bully or not, and then Sato-chan’s body too, there was plenty of pain to share with the world.

Then there was the ache of unrequited love. How could Hiyoko-chan be so oblivious to how much she had liked her? And since when was she as audacious enough to turn around and thrust herself back into her life? How was that fair?

Mahiru’s thoughts were interrupted by none other than Hiyoko herself, who was sat on a creaky old chair at the dinner table, nursing a broken mug of tea.

“Mahiru-chan, can we watch the news?”

Mahiru, sitting up straight, praying Hiyoko hadn’t noticed her staring, nodded frantically, approaching a tiny box-like TV.

Reports were flooding in on every channel about this tragedy that befell Hope’s Peak Academy had been further expanded by the reckless and daring behaviours by those acting in the name of Junko Enoshima. There were wanted images on the tiny screen, of a distinctly pink-haired mechanic. Images of the destruction he had left in his wake were almost impressive. He’d killed four officers in the explosion at Hope’s Peak? And had set up a series of traps throughout the city? He really seemed to be thriving in the chaos.

Then again, a mechanic who has been honing his talents was going to be one of the hardest to catch after the fallout. It would be easier just to strike him dead.

He seemed to be the only identified person who was acting in her name, the rest of the people Mahiru had identified at Hope’s Peak had clearly not been caught for the anarchy and despair they were inspiring. It was crazy impressive.

Mahiru turned to see Hiyoko smirking, her hand over her lips.

“Mahiru-chan,” Hiyoko said, “I’m making a move.”

Without hesitating, the redhead got to her feet, “I’m coming with you.”

“Good,” Hiyoko said with a smile, she took Mahiru’s hand, “Let’s get the world to feel our despair.”

A week after the end of the killing game, Hiyoko Saionji, the Ultimate Traditional Dancer, hosted a memorial concert to “mourn the thirteen students who had passed away during the game”. The stage had been set up with black and white portraits of every one of the deceased Ultimates, starting with Mukuro Ikusaba, and ending with the Ultimate Despair herself, Junko Enoshima. They had been put up on canvases around the stages, in the order they died. Hiyoko had canisters of paint suspended from the light rafters above where she would dance.

Going back home had been harder to do, Hiyoko was wearing disguises wherever she went, lest she get caught by the police and detained for the murder of her grandparents. But it was all going to be worth it if Mahiru could help orchestrate the chaos.

On the morning of the concert, a remote was posted through the letterbox of Mahiru Koizume’s family home, where she and Hiyoko had been hiding out. On the package, there was a small scribble, in the corner, diagonal from the stamp, a teddy bear with a twisted face, one-half benign and innocent, the other contorted into a wicked smirk. It had one black eye, and one red, a scruffy sketch, but it was enough of a sign for the girls.

She mounted the stage on the night of the memorial, the familiar white glow of the spotlights.

The same pink that had been used by Junko to censor the bloodshed in her game, came raining down onto the stage, and Hiyoko herself. Mahiru had gasped from backstage, snapping pictures as the second part of the device they had commissioned came into play, a cyclone of shrapnel, nails, glass, and stones, came raining down from buckets suspended in on the rafters.

Hiyoko, with paint all over her hair, face, etc., crumpled to the floor and wailed. She pawed at her eyes as the injured rushed to a locked exit. Hiyoko had run from the premises, taking Mahiru by the hand and leaving through a singular exit, which they’d left the door propped open. It locked behind them, and they never looked back, giggling hysterically, like they’d put a thumbtack on the teacher’s chair at school.

This was more euphoric than she had ever known, and as they ran through blackened streets to their getaway bike, Hiyoko clung to Mahiru’s hand, pulled her close, and planted her lips onto the redheads, caressing her face with her bloody hands. As they pulled apart, Mahiru took hold of the collar of Hiyoko’s once monochromatic kimono and kissed her roughly. They had to get away. Quick.

That night, the police broke into the building, long after the concert should have ended, and found the massacre. They’d all suffocated to death, with no ventilation in the room, the paint fumes and the heat of so many bodies, took them all out. But, there was Hiyoko, supposedly spared due to a “failed stunt” with the paint, which in every phone interview, she insisted was meant to be glitter, and her best friend, who in her tantrum, she had dragged with her. What fortune that the Ultimate Traditional Dancer and the Ultimate Photographer had been spared.

Her face was all over the newspaper over the next few days, and the two girls couldn’t stop smiling, embracing one another on the loveseat in a cheap motel. There were going to be questions, and interviews but they had a scapegoat, someone who had consented to taking the blame for setting up the trap she needed, Kazuichi was a magnet for attention, and blaming him was the perfect way to inspire further despair. Despite both girls reeking of paint, skin stained a gaudy magenta, they embraced one another, snapping crude photographs of one another on Mahiru’s camera as they pranced around the motel room, lathered in the “fallout of a failed stunt”.

Her memorial was all over the news, with journalists pointing fingers to blame a variety of culprits, none of them the dancer herself. They’d gotten away with it for now, and they laughed over cheap vending machine breakfasts.

“This was clearly an attack on Hiyoko Saionji, this is likely to have been committed by the same criminal who brutally murdered her grandparents.” The articles read, accompanied by a startling image, submitted by one Mahiru Koizumi.

The redhead’s photo of the fallout from behind the curtain that backed Hiyoko, was poignant. But Hiyoko preferred the ones they’d taken after the show.

She had fallen into euphoria, in the arms of the Ultimate Photographer, tearing motel rooms to shreds in their ecstasy. They’d never been happier, freer than they had chasing the whim of Junko. And so, they swore a vow to pursue despair. Together.


End file.
